


Can't Fight The Undertow

by PepperF



Series: Diego whump [13]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Drowning, Gen, Not Canon Compliant, but only because unexpected!superpowers, but there's nothing to suggest that Diego knows in the show that he can hold his breath indefinitely, or I suppose it could be, or not drowning, that's the only difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:22:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26989720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperF/pseuds/PepperF
Summary: He's sixteen, and he knows everything. He has the training, and the experience, and the extra little spin that makes him special—which is probably why he gets in over his head.
Series: Diego whump [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951318
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Can't Fight The Undertow

**Author's Note:**

> My eternal gratitude to Bethany (I'm just going to get more and more effusive in these...) for being my beta and friend. :-*

He's sixteen, and he knows everything. He has the training, and the experience, and the extra little spin that makes him special—which is probably why he gets in over his head.

"It's one of those Umbrella kids," says the goon, shaking him hard enough to rattle his teeth.

"Fuck, it's not the one with the tentacles, is it?"

"No, shithead, he died, remember? I think it's the one with the knives."

"Knives, huh?" The boss grins, scratching his chin with his gun. "Knives I think we can handle. So come on, Knives, show us your stuff."

His hands are zip-tied behind his back at wrists and elbows, so all he can do is glare. The men around him laugh. 

"You don't look old enough to be playing superhero for realsies, kid."

"Old enough to put two of your men in the ground," he grits out, the hesitation in his speech almost inaudible.

The look that might almost have been concern drops off the man's face. "Not too old to be taught a lesson, though." He nods at one of his men. "Educate him on the meaning of the phrase, 'sleep with the fishes'," he instructs.

His stomach drops. The men nod and start to drag him away, no ceremony, no long speeches, no last-second chances to escape. Just professionals, dealing with a problem.

A problem called Diego.

\---

It seems to be routine for them. Chains and a concrete block appear, and he's shackled quickly and efficiently. No one's talking to him, now, and no one's laughing. They throw him in the bed of a truck and drive it to the end of a pier. Two men haul him off, and over to the edge.

"Sorry, kid," says one, and then— _one, two, three_ —he's freefalling, and plunging into the dark, cold water.

He holds his breath instinctively, despite knowing that there's no one coming to his rescue, at least not in time. He struggles with the chains as he sinks, but they're too tight, there's no give. It's maybe thirty seconds before he hits the bottom, throwing up a wave of silt around him, and he keeps struggling, keeps trying to find a way, keeps holding his breath...

...and keeps holding his breath...

...and keeps holding his breath...

At some point he notices that all the silt has settled down again, and he's still holding his breath. He glances up at the moon, distantly visible through the water, as reachable as the fresh air just a few yards above.

He can't keep holding on, can he? It's not possible. Already he's fighting the urge to let go, to suck in a new breath—but he won't, he won't, not yet, not until he has no choice.

It's cold down here. He can feel the weight of the water, and the current that buffets him—not enough to move him from the spot where the concrete is slowly sinking into the sludge, but enough that he can't stay upright. Unidentifiable garbage drifts past, and the occasional curious fish comes to nudge at him. The water makes his eyes hurt, so he closes them.

He's so cold. And he's holding on, but for how long? He told no one he was going on this job, certain that he could do it alone. It could take them hours to find him, and that's if they even realize he's missing. There's no way he can last that long. Right?

He blinks up at the moon again, through stinging eyes. And prays.

\---

_His control is slipping... the urge to breathe in is becoming unbearable, a pressure in his chest and in his mind, instinctual, his heartbeat getting heavier..._

_Distantly, he hears the impact of two bodies hitting the water, and somehow he knows that it's Luther and Allison, they're on their way, if he could just hold on...but he can't...any second now, he's going to have to give in..._

_He writhes, fighting himself, his body needing to give in, his brain trying to keep control...but he's losing the battle..._

_The last bubbles of breath trickle out from between his lips, and if he could cry, he'd be sobbing right now... He's going to do it, and he hates his body, hates the stupidity of this death, such a waste, such a_ disappointment...

_With every fiber of his being, he fights, thrashing silently against the water and against himself... If only his siblings were here, they'd save him, but it's too late, he's going to do it, this is it, he can feel his mouth opening and it's almost a relief, one breath and it'll be over at last—_

—and he wakes up.

For a silent moment, he's still fighting the instinct to draw breath, clawing at the bedsheets, until it penetrates that he's not underwater any more, and he heaves in a breath, still half in the dream and convinced that he's signed his own death warrant—but it's just air, just oxygen, and he breathes out a harsh sob and buries his face in the pillow, muffling his panting breaths and the tears he can't hold back.

Every night since, he's dreamed of it, fought the same fight. He'd been down there for over half an hour before Luther and Allison arrived, but he'd held his breath for all of it—and expected every second to be his last, the whole time.

He's exhausted, but he can't go back to sleep, can't go under again, so he gets up and stumbles out to the hallway, wiping furiously at the tears still leaking from his eyes and hoping he's not woken anyone else. All is quiet, so he heads for the gallery, where he knows Mom will be recharging. She's in rest mode, with her head gently tilted as she gazes sightlessly at one of the paintings, and he settles on the floor at her feet with a sigh. Now that he's finally had a growth spurt, he's tall enough to rest his head on her knee. 

He doesn't want to think about the river any more, so instead he thinks about the stash he's been building up, in preparation for when he finally gets out of here. He's got nearly two hundred bucks now, from odd jobs that he's done here and there, in secret. He doesn't know much about the cost of living in the real world, but he doesn't want much, nothing like he's got at the Academy—just somewhere to sleep and basic food to eat. It's more urgent now; he doesn't know how long Luther will keep his promise not to tell Dad about Diego's new power, even though Allison was on his side for once. She's been pushing against the restraints of this place too, and Diego suspects she's got her own exit plans brewing. But Luther is loyal, and he can't lie for shit. 

Five hundred bucks is his target, he decides. Hopefully that'll be enough to cover him until he gets a job or something, and then he'll be free of Dad, free of this suffocating place...just free.


End file.
